


Stark. Robb Stark.

by moshelle



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU, Captivity, First Time, Friendship, Gen, Greyjoy, History, House Greyjoy, House Stark, M/M, Meeting, North, Stark - Freeform, Winterfell, hostage, prisoner, relationships, throbb - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-23 14:09:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3771133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moshelle/pseuds/moshelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Stark. Robb Stark."<br/>The boy carried a grin stretched widely to his ears and his eyes lit up an ocean blue that made Theon miss his saltwater home already. His stomach churned nervously as he thought of the distressed look in his mother's eyes. He could taste the bitter, salty sea in his mouth.<br/>That is, until he realised it was his own saliva.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stark. Robb Stark.

**Author's Note:**

> Set in a different timeline (au), I wondered how Robb and Theon first met...  
> so I decided to create my own version of their history together.  
> In this story, Theon encounters Robb for the very first time, both of them young adolescences of ages 14 and 15.

"Stark. Robb Stark."

The boy carried a grin stretched widely from one ear to another, eyes lit up an ocean blue that made Theon miss his saltwater home already. His stomach churned nervously as he thought of the distressed look in his mother's eyes when he was separated from the safety of her bosom. He could taste the bitter, salty sea in his mouth.

That is, until he realised it was his own saliva.

Theon blinked away the tears and stared tentatively at the hand stretched out before him and pondered if he should really dirty the hands of the fine, little lord before him. His own were caked in dry dirt, red and raw from pressure, black grit stuck stubbornly in between his nails.

He decided not to shake hands after all and stood timidly still, staring at the weeds poking out from the ground.

"Which House are you from?"

Theon looked up. He had wild curls the colour of old oak trees, clean and neatly trimmed, bouncing over his forehead in all directions. He looked about the same age as himself, maybe slightly older, being an inch taller and all. He was dressed in rich clothing and fur warm enough that made Theon shiver in the northern wind. He glazed his tongue over his dry lips and was surprised the boy could still plaster such a big smile on his cherry-tinted cheeks without getting sore.

"From the Iron Islands, m'lord. Of House Greyjoy."

The Stark boy grinned even wider. If that was possible.

"Ahh, the Greyjoys! My father has told me about the strong ships and sailors, fishermen that could horde as many fish from the sea enough to feed the whole of King's landing!" The Stark chuckled, throwing gestures widely about as Theon stood aside timidly, mildly distracted by the amount of enthusiasm and energy his new companion exhibited.

"Greyjoy, what are you doing here in Winterfell? I heard it was quite a long way from here to the islands? For whatever bizarre reason did your father send you here for?"

Theon almost didn't hear the question but the mention of his father snapped him back into bitter consciousness. He felt a dull, throbbing pain in the back of his skull. His throat clenched dry and he felt a hatred like no other burn its way from his stomach through to his heart. For a second, he clasped his hands together so tight, his knuckles were white, refraining himself from wrecking havoc in the courtyard of the Stark quarters.

His voice wavered weakly, "your father took me hostage."

His jaw was a rusty iron, refusing to open smoothly. He witnessed the sudden change in the stark boy’s expression and the silence grew tense, the only sounds audible were the clashing of training swords and yells of constructive insults.

The stark was still, failing miserably at disguising his shock. He opened his mouth to speak but the voice of an older man cut him off.

"Robb, it’s time to give the boy a rest. Your mother is calling for you and its best to quickly run along now."

The man gently rested a hand on his son’s shoulder, glancing warily between the two of them.

Theon peeked at the face of his captor. He wondered if he could ever forgive someone like him. Although, he was the rightful lord of Winterfell, and it wouldn't end happily if he ran away or disobeyed. _Better to play it safe and smart._

"Yes, father."

Theon looked away, scrunching his face and watched as his ''friend'' lumbered slowly towards the stone chambers, peeking back at him with an almost curious expression.

Theon fumbled uncomfortably in his muddy clothes and kicked the snow-fallen dirt around. He still didn't dare look at the face of Lord Eddard Stark.

"Come, boy. I'll show you to your chambers."

 

Theon reluctantly obliged. 

 


End file.
